The Taking of Libbie, SD (22 page)

“Her investment?”

“She was protecting you.”

“I didn’t make a phone call.”

“Are you sure?”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Yep.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Someone called the Imposter using your phone.”

“Nonsense.”

“I told you, I did it,” Mrs. Miller said.

“Nonsense,” her husband said.

Jon Kampa stood at a discreet distance throughout the conversation, pretending not to be there, giving the Millers the illusion of privacy while listening intently to every word. Finally he spoke up.

“I did it,” he said. “I made the phone call.”

“Ahh, another county heard from,” I said.

Kampa moved closer, stepping between me and Miller.

“I had dinner that Tuesday night at the Millers’.” He gave Miller a meaningful stare over his shoulder. “Remember?” Mr. and Mrs. Miller both nodded their heads, so I knew he must have been telling the truth. “Just before I left, I asked to use the phone. I called Rush. I called the Imposter.”

“Why?” I said.

“To warn him. Dewey kept saying that he was going to kill him or have him killed because of Saranne. I couldn’t let that happen. I didn’t care about Rush, but Dewey and I have been friends for a long time, and I didn’t want to see him do anything foolish. So I warned Rush to get out of town.”

“You’re a good friend,” Miller said.

“Either that, or he’s protecting his investment, too,” I said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I ignored the question. Instead, I asked Kampa, “Did you arrange to meet Rush?”

“No,” he said. “I just told him that he was no longer welcome in Libbie and that he should leave.”

“What about the mall?”

“It didn’t come up. It was a short conversation.”

I turned toward Miller. “That’s two versions. Want to make it three, turn it into a real
Rashomon
?”

“You heard the truth,” Miller said.

“Which time? You know what, it doesn’t matter. Why don’t we call the cops and let them sort it out.”

“McKenzie, you said you weren’t going to call the police,” Mrs. Miller said.

“I lied,” I said. “Why not? Everyone else is doing it.”

“Fine,” Miller said. “Call Chief Gustafson. See where that gets you.”

“I’m not going to call Gustafson. I’m going to call Big Joe Balk. I bet he asks if this has anything to do with the murders of Tracie Blake and Mike Randisi.”

From the expression on the big man’s face, he didn’t like that idea at all.
Another reason to give the sheriff some respect
, my inner voice told me.

“I’ve had enough of you,” Miller said. He used a big, beefy arm to nudge Kampa aside and moved close to me, a bully trying to use his size to intimidate. “You’re getting out of town. You’re getting out of town now.”

“You remind me of Church. Remember what happened to him?”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Miller shoved hard enough against my chest to force me to take a couple of backward steps. I was surprised a man his age was that strong; it made me think that Michelle Miller’s plan to wait for his demise was not all that sound.

“Do you think I’m afraid of you?” Miller asked.

He pushed again, and again I had to give ground. He followed close behind.

“Don’t do that,” I said.

“Get out of town.”

Miller leaned on me a third time. I retreated a few steps to maintain my balance.

“Don’t do that,” I said. “I’m serious.”

“No, I’m serious. I’ve had it with you, city boy.”

Miller brought both hands up and lunged toward my face. This time I caught his left hand between both of my hands, his knuckles between my palms, my fingers interlocked. I squeezed hard and lifted the hand high in the air while keeping the knuckles pressed together. I pushed his hand back as I pulled his arm down. The big man came down with it, falling to his knees in front of me. He shouted, “Let me go,” as I applied more pressure. It would have been easy to crumple his aging fingers, to snap his wrist.

“I do believe you need anger management therapy,” I said. I squeezed his knuckles and bent his hand farther back, making him cry out in pain some more. “Get used to the idea—I’m not going anywhere until I find out what happened to the Imposter and all that money. In the meantime…” I leaned in close and hissed in his ear. “Say anything that you want, to me or about me, I don’t care. But you lay hands on me again, they’ll need tweezers to put you back together, I don’t give a damn how old you are.”

I released his hand. He cradled it with the other and tried to massage the pain away.

“We’re having some fun now, aren’t we, kids?” I said.

Neither the Millers nor Jon Kampa seemed to agree with me. I can’t say I blamed them. I didn’t mind hurting Miller—it wasn’t long ago that he had me Tasered, kidnapped, and locked in the trunk of a car, remember? On the other hand, I had accomplished nothing except to identify a couple more liars in a town that seemed loaded with them. Worse, I was no closer to finding the Imposter than when I started.

“This is getting us nowhere,” I said.

I left them there, crossing the concrete slab back to my car. Not for the first time, I wondered what the hell I was doing in Libbie, SD.

It wasn’t until I was two miles down the road that I started to wonder, what if Kampa was telling the truth, as unlikely as that might be—what if he had warned Rush to get outta Dodge? I pulled to the shoulder and tried to call Chief Gustafson. I didn’t have any coverage. I drove closer to town. It wasn’t until I was near the outskirts of Libbie that my cell phone picked up the faintest sliver of a bar.

“Hey, Chief,” I said when he answered my call. “I know you have a lot on your plate right now, but I’d like you to check something for me, if you could.”

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking about the Imposter’s car. You said you found it parked in the lot over at Lake Mataya.”

“What about it?”

“You said you had it towed back to the rental agency.”

“That’s right.”

“Why tow it?”

“We didn’t have the keys.”

“The Imposter abandoned the car but didn’t leave the keys?” I said.

“Probably he just slipped them in his pocket without thinking about it. That would be a natural thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose. Except I keep going back to my original question. Why abandon the car in the first place? Why not just drive off? And why abandon it at the park, where it would be easy to spot?”

“What’s on your mind, McKenzie?”

“Lake Mataya is on a main drag out of town, right?”

“White Buffalo Road, sure.”

“I want you to call the rental agency and see if there was any trouble with the car. See if it started and drove okay.”

“Do you think the car broke down, that’s why it was abandoned?”

“It’s a possibility.”

The chief thought about it for a few beats, and I wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking. Turned out he was.

“Rush figures someone is onto him and panics, just like you thought,” he said. “He fully intends to head somewhere like Rapid City, but his car breaks down. The only person he can trust to give him a ride would be his accomplice.”

“We think that the Imposter is in the Cayman Islands because that’s where the money is,” I said. “Except there are at least a half-dozen people with the account numbers and password that could have stolen the money. If the accomplice was one of them—”

“The accomplice would have known the bank account was as flush as it was going to get, that it was time to pull the plug—”

“Which meant he no longer needed Rush. He could have killed Rush—”

“Kept the money for himself, and because we found the car abandoned at the lake—”

“We would assume that the Imposter blew town with the money and would be spending our time looking for him instead of the real villain.”

The chief gave it another beat.

“It’s a good theory except for one thing—there’s no body. Where is Rush?”

“I’m working on it,” I said.

“You do that. I’ll call the rental agency and get back to you.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Night seemed to fall quicker and more colorfully in Libbie than it did in the Cities. Out here it went from orange to red to purple to dark blue to black, and it went through this transformation in mere minutes. I found myself sitting in my car next to the Pioneer Hotel watching it, wishing I didn’t have to wait twenty-four hours to see it again.

Sharren Nuffer was back behind the registration desk when I finally stepped inside the hotel. Her eyes were still red and puffy.

“Hi,” she said.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m okay. It’s been a tough day. I think the whole town is in mourning.”

“I can appreciate that.”

“Nothing like this has ever happened to us before.”

I liked how she said “us.” In the greater Twin Cities, which boasts a population of about two-point-eight million, us was a comparatively small group of people consisting of families, friends, and co-workers. Murders occurred with some frequency, yet they nearly always involved someone else, rarely us. Out of either indifference or self-defense, we didn’t take them personally. In a small town like Libbie, which had far fewer people than your average Twin Cities high school, us was everyone. In a very real sense, what happened to one happened to all. Presumably it was the reason people in small towns looked out for each other more than we did in the Cities.

“How did it go with Mr. Miller?” Sharren asked.

“About what you would expect. Are you sure that Rush received a call from Miller the Tuesday night he disappeared?”

“That’s what the caller ID said. Does he deny it?”

“Yeah, but he’s the only one that does.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. Can you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“I need a list of the names of all the city council members and where I can find them. Tracie was going to introduce me, but…”

Sharren stood perfectly still for a moment; she didn’t even blink.

“Of course,” she said. “I am so sorry about Tracie and Mike. It’s depressing. It makes me feel old. I don’t like to feel old.”

“I understand.”

“Oh, I nearly forgot.” She reached under the desk and produced a sheet of white paper. “This was faxed to you.”

I studied the sheet. Sharren did the same, looking over my shoulder.

“What is it?” she said.

The fax was from Greg Schroeder, and it listed the addresses and phone numbers of a couple of dozen men named Nicholas Hendel. Most of them lived in Chicago. There were also a few in Skokie, Oak Park, Cicero, Winnetka, Arlington Heights, Ashton, Joliet, and more.

“A needle in a haystack,” I said.

A moment later, the lobby was filled with the whoop and wail of a fire truck siren. It started low, increased in volume, and then decreased as the truck passed the hotel’s large windows. Seconds later, another truck passed.

“Volunteer fire department,” Sharren said. She rushed to the window and looked out. As she did, Evan, the blond bartender, backed into the lobby through the front door, watching the trucks pass as he did.

“What’s going on?” Sharren asked him. “Do you know?”

“It’s the Dannes—Rick and Cathy—over by the high school. Their house is on fire.”

By the time I reached the site, the eight-man volunteer fire department was already hard at it. I could see them clearly in the high-intensity lights that they had trained on the building. Two two-man crews were hosing down the side of the house where the fire was visible, while a third team cautiously crossed the roof. One of the firefighters powered up a chain saw. He carefully cut a hole in the roof to release the intense heat while the second gave him a steadying embrace. I wanted to help, but I didn’t even know where to begin, so I stood back like a couple of dozen other gawkers, staying out of the way as best I could.

The flames licked one side of the house, but the opposite side had remained untouched. A fire ladder was set against that wall, and the two men who had used it to reach the roof now scrambled back down. A firefighter with an ax smashed a window on the ground floor, and smoke began billowing out, rising until it disappeared into the night sky. A moment later, he smashed another window.

A woman screamed. I followed the scream to the front of the house, where Rick Danne was holding tight to his wife, trying to console her. It didn’t seem to do any good. She writhed in his arms as if she wanted to run into the burning building. I wondered if someone could be trapped inside until I heard a voice announce, “No one was home when it started.”

The flames cast frightening orange shadows against Cathy’s face and white shirt. Her sorrow and fear and rage were agonizing to watch. It reminded me of those times when I worked traffic control at fires when I was a cop in St. Paul, sometimes having to restrain residents from braving the fire to recover some cherished heirloom. I knew what she must have been feeling, what other fire victims felt—the terrific sense of loss. It wasn’t just her belongings that were going up in smoke; it was the nourishing routine of her life. After all, shelter isn’t that hard to come by. Clothes, furniture, appliances, the house itself—those all could be replaced. Wedding photos could not. Nor could music collections, books, childhood mementos, the little black dress that fit just so, the comfy chair that was just the way we liked it, the mug we reached for whenever we wanted a cup of joe, or the prized souvenirs of a life lived long and well. They were the things that anchored us to our lives. Without them, we were like kites cut loose from their strings.

I found myself moving far out of Cathy’s sight line for fear that seeing me would cause her even greater pain—and because I wanted to spare myself the reproachful stare and accusatory oaths that I knew I deserved. There was no doubt in my mind that Church had caused this fire, as he had so many others, to get back at the Dannes and to get back at me, to make a joke of my vow to protect them. I also had no doubt that Cathy Danne would blame me for this outrage, and she would be right to do so. The fire would not have happened if I had kept my seat in the Café Rossini, if I had not insisted on standing up to Church, if I had not been so quick to impose myself on someone else’s life.